Upgraded by Peter Watts, Greg Egan, Ken Liu, Robert Reed, Elizabeth Bear, Madeline Ashby, E. Lily Yu Page B
Tags: Science-Fiction, Short Stories, Short-Story, cyberpunk, Anthology, cyborg, novelette, Clarkesworld
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will that be?
A cold heart and a bloody hand. That’s what you’ve been. What you are.
You turn and go back into the cockpit.
“Is the planet real?” you ask. And look John’s son for any hint, any sign of a lie. You can see pulse, heat, and micro-expressions. Things that help you fight, spot the move. And now, spot intent.
“It’s real.”
“There is another way,” you say.
“And what is that?”
“Take me with you. Get as much fuel as you can, but leave early. Even if it means we only get halfway to where you are going. I killed the Satrap, and everything protecting him. And it wasn’t the first. When we run out of fuel, we’ll dock and I’ll rip more fuel out of their alien hands for you. For you. Understand? I can train more like me. When your fleet passes through, those that stand against us will rue it. I will do this because there is a debt here, understand?”
John looks warily at you. “You were with my father. He didn’t kill the Satrap?”
“There is a debt,” you repeat.
“He helped you?”
“Give me weapons. The non-humans on the station, they enjoy a position of power. They have avoided mostly being in thrall, as we are the new species for that. So even though we have time, they will figure out what we are doing and act against us. You’ll want me out there, buying you time.”
John nods, and reaches out a hand to shake.
You don’t take it. You can’t take it. Not with his father’s blood still on it.
“Weapons,” you repeat. “Before your men start dying unnecessarily.”
Cycled through the locks, deBrun’s men behind you, you walk past the stream of frightened people heading for the ship.
You stand in the large docking bays and survey the battlefield.
This is who you are. This is who you will be. This is who you choose.
A cold heart and bloody hands.
When this is over, when you help deliver them to their new world and repay your debt, you can go home to Earth. Stalk for clues to your past. See if you wander until you find that palm tree on the island you remember.
But for now, you are right here.
Right now.
Waiting for the fight to come to you.
The Sarcophagus
Robert Reed
The object was gray and smooth to the eye and the eye’s first glance gave no clue about its size or mass or its true importance. The second look, a much more careful examination, proved nothing except that almost nothing about the object’s appearance had changed. One very simple sphere was reflecting the light of a million suns. The likely assumption was that the eye had found something close and quite small. Old instincts judged its speed; the object crossed its diameter twice every second. That made for a very slow walk between the stars. Even the laziest eye could follow its passage, and the lazy hand had ample time to reach up, fashioning a bowl of fingers that would catch what was making its gentle plunge.
But no hand remained, certainly none that would ever work, and the eye was not much of eye either. Death had severely degraded its imagination, and worse, slowed its capacity to recognize even obvious mistakes.
Something huge and quite ancient was approaching. The object only seemed to be dumbly simple. The reality was that this was a machine woven out of complications, baffling and enigmatic to every eye. That gray hull was smoother than any polish, and as it grew closer, the eye noticed fierce little lights rising from hull and crisscrossing its face. Between here and there, the vacuum was filled with brilliant sparks and whispery veils. Each glow had its flavor. Every glimmer excited the basic elements of the universe. That eager light held telltale blue-shiftings, and once its old talents were awakened, the eye began to understand how utterly wrong it had been, believing in small sluggish things as insignificant as a child’s ball.
The machine was fifty thousand kilometers in diameter.
Bigger than most worlds, ten seconds would carry this marvel across one million
A cold heart and a bloody hand. That’s what you’ve been. What you are.
You turn and go back into the cockpit.
“Is the planet real?” you ask. And look John’s son for any hint, any sign of a lie. You can see pulse, heat, and micro-expressions. Things that help you fight, spot the move. And now, spot intent.
“It’s real.”
“There is another way,” you say.
“And what is that?”
“Take me with you. Get as much fuel as you can, but leave early. Even if it means we only get halfway to where you are going. I killed the Satrap, and everything protecting him. And it wasn’t the first. When we run out of fuel, we’ll dock and I’ll rip more fuel out of their alien hands for you. For you. Understand? I can train more like me. When your fleet passes through, those that stand against us will rue it. I will do this because there is a debt here, understand?”
John looks warily at you. “You were with my father. He didn’t kill the Satrap?”
“There is a debt,” you repeat.
“He helped you?”
“Give me weapons. The non-humans on the station, they enjoy a position of power. They have avoided mostly being in thrall, as we are the new species for that. So even though we have time, they will figure out what we are doing and act against us. You’ll want me out there, buying you time.”
John nods, and reaches out a hand to shake.
You don’t take it. You can’t take it. Not with his father’s blood still on it.
“Weapons,” you repeat. “Before your men start dying unnecessarily.”
Cycled through the locks, deBrun’s men behind you, you walk past the stream of frightened people heading for the ship.
You stand in the large docking bays and survey the battlefield.
This is who you are. This is who you will be. This is who you choose.
A cold heart and bloody hands.
When this is over, when you help deliver them to their new world and repay your debt, you can go home to Earth. Stalk for clues to your past. See if you wander until you find that palm tree on the island you remember.
But for now, you are right here.
Right now.
Waiting for the fight to come to you.
The Sarcophagus
Robert Reed
The object was gray and smooth to the eye and the eye’s first glance gave no clue about its size or mass or its true importance. The second look, a much more careful examination, proved nothing except that almost nothing about the object’s appearance had changed. One very simple sphere was reflecting the light of a million suns. The likely assumption was that the eye had found something close and quite small. Old instincts judged its speed; the object crossed its diameter twice every second. That made for a very slow walk between the stars. Even the laziest eye could follow its passage, and the lazy hand had ample time to reach up, fashioning a bowl of fingers that would catch what was making its gentle plunge.
But no hand remained, certainly none that would ever work, and the eye was not much of eye either. Death had severely degraded its imagination, and worse, slowed its capacity to recognize even obvious mistakes.
Something huge and quite ancient was approaching. The object only seemed to be dumbly simple. The reality was that this was a machine woven out of complications, baffling and enigmatic to every eye. That gray hull was smoother than any polish, and as it grew closer, the eye noticed fierce little lights rising from hull and crisscrossing its face. Between here and there, the vacuum was filled with brilliant sparks and whispery veils. Each glow had its flavor. Every glimmer excited the basic elements of the universe. That eager light held telltale blue-shiftings, and once its old talents were awakened, the eye began to understand how utterly wrong it had been, believing in small sluggish things as insignificant as a child’s ball.
The machine was fifty thousand kilometers in diameter.
Bigger than most worlds, ten seconds would carry this marvel across one million
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